


Small Sacrifices

by befree2



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic Fluff, Feels, Getting Together, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/befree2/pseuds/befree2
Summary: Five times that Sherlock made small sacrifices for Rosie and the one time that John realized it was all for him.





	Small Sacrifices

John and Sherlock had been bumbling through Rosamund’s infanthood since Mary’s death, but John had still been surprised when Sherlock steadfastly insisted that John move back to Baker Street once his old lease was up, "-since you're already here all day, anyways. It would be pointless for you to continue paying rent when you're more than welcome here."

"Sherlock, I _can't_ move back here. It isn't practical. You leave body parts in the fridge and all of this-" John swept a hand around at the kitchen behind him. "It isn't safe for a child. It’s one thing to visit, but it’s another to stay here.”

"I could be flexible with moving certain experiments to my bedroom. There is a lock on the door and a workbench could be easily set-up. Perhaps even a mini-fridge next to my nightstand would serve sufficient for cold storage. And you know that I'm not so absent-minded as to leave beakers of acid or sharp tools about with a toddler running amok."

"You-" John furrowed his brows. "You'd be willing to do that?"

"Of course," Sherlock threw him a scathing look-the 'are you stupid?' look that usually had John's blood boiling or his fist flying toward just that infuriating expression.

"And-and the explosions?”

"I could conduct any potentially explosive experiments in Molly's lab instead," he offered.

John gaped, but managed to reply after a beat, "You've been _thinking_ about this."

Sherlock, however, ignored him. "Why don't you go talk to your landlady. Oh, and tell Mrs. Hudson. It'll just make her week."

John opened his mouth to protest, but found that his mind was quite made up already. He was moving back to Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

"No clients," Sherlock barked, shutting the door in the woman's face. The woman outside kept knocking anyways. "For heaven's sake-" he shrugged on his jacket and pulled the door open again, taking his keys and locking it behind him this time. "Go to the bloody _police_ ," he shouted on his way past her and down the stairs.

When he returned less than an hour later, Sherlock expected that the woman would be long gone. When he pushed open the door, however, he was greeted by the sight of John, sitting in his usual chair with Rosie laying across his lap, and that idiotic woman sitting opposite in the client's chair.

"I told you to go to the police," Sherlock said quietly.

"Sherlock, she's a client, we have to hear her out, at least-" John stopped dead in the middle of his sentence. "Where did you go?" he asked instead, a hint of disbelief under the accusatory tone.

"Shopping."

"You did the shopping?" Now John was sounding a bit stupid, and the client was glancing between them, lost. "What did you get?"

"What do you think I got? I picked up a fever reducer, crackers, milk, bread, tea, yogurt, bananas, a bit of sports drink, some vicks, a sandwich and a pre-made meal."

"You-what did you really get?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and started unloading those exact items from the bags and onto the counter top. "Might want to give this to her when you put her to bed," he pushed the fever reducer over to the edge of the counter. Even from his chair, John could clearly see that it was a children's variety. "Or would you like me to do it while you get this infernal woman out of here?"

"But-" John blinked. "You ought to hear this one out, really. The case is-"

"Probably an eight, I know, but there are more important things to worry about right now. The Work can wait- _God_ , I hate those words. If the police haven't sorted her out by the time Rosie is feeling better, Lestrade will call me to solve it anyways."

"You-? " The woman softened her eyes on Sherlock. "You won't' take my case because your daughter is sick? I hadn't even realized-thought she was just tired," she shook her head incredulously. "Why didn't you just _say_ so?"

John seemed to come to his senses. "Sorry about that. Thought he'd take it anyways. Why don't you see Scotland Yard, ask for DI Lestrade. He's the best on the force."

"Of course. So sorry," the woman told John, standing up quickly. "I'll see myself out."

"Thank you."

 

"Sherlock?" John shifted a sleeping Rosie in his arms to stand up and trot into this kitchen. "Did you do all that just to get rid of that woman?"

"What? No-She's _sick_ , John. There's medicine for her fever, as well as vicks to break up the mucus in her chest. The sports drink to keep her well-hydrated just in case she vomits, and an array of easy-on-the-stomach foods. Plus milk, tea and dinner for you, so that you won't have to leave her to go get anything."

"Oh," John blinked. "That was...really thoughtful. Thank you, Sherlock."

He simply nodded, and put the milk in the fridge as John picked up the medicine and hauled Rosie off to bed.

 

* * *

 

"She should have been out of her crib months ago," John sighed. "She's outgrown it. I'm going to have to get my own place eventually, you know. Might as well do it now."

"But you don't have to move out, John."

"I can't keep staying in the same room as her. It's fine when she's still a toddler, but we'll need separate bedrooms eventually. Which means I'll have to get my own place."

"But why do you have to? Take my bedroom," Sherlock insisted. "I never use it."

John gaped. "I'm not going to steal your room!"

"Not steal," Sherlock corrected. "Share. You sleep in my room and Rosie has her own space."

"We can't share a room," John told him firmly.

"Why not?"

"For the love of-"

"Both beds would fit-they're quite small. You can have the closet and I'll use my wardrobe. I'll only conduct experiments while you're at work or otherwise not home, and never while you're sleeping so that I won't disturb you-"

"You're talking as if it's already a done deal-"

Sherlock barreled on, "We've lived together for years now, so there isn't much left to be embarrassed about and I always wear pajamas, although I don't care that you sleep in your pants-"

"Sherlock," John cut him off. "What if I need space too?"

"You'll have plenty of room, I assure you. I know that it doesn't look it with my bed in the middle like that, but once it's pushed against the far wall-"

"No," John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I mean, my own space-physical as well as... _space_ , you know? And besides, what if I wanted to start dating again some day? Would I be expected to tell her 'sorry, don't mind my flatmate, we share a room. You won't mind, yeah?'"

For the first time in the conversation, Sherlock seemed less sure of himself. "The offer stands," he said finally, much more quietly. "Think it over."

 

It was two weeks before they settled the matter and moved John's bed into Sherlock's room and got Rosie her own tiny toddler bed for upstairs. As Sherlock had promised, their new shared quarters weren't as cramped as John thought they would have been. There was enough room for an end table between their beds, a wardrobe and dresser on the opposite wall and Sherlock's lab bench pushed into its own dedicated corner, surrounded by bookshelves.

The first few nights, John was uneasy sleeping in a new place and woke unrested, relying on a strong cuppa to keep him going through the day. The fourth night he went to bed exhausted, but restless until Sherlock slipped into the room and flopped down onto his own bed with a murmured, "Good night, John."

"'Night, Sherlock," John returned, and slept the next ten hours through.

 

* * *

 

John was on the phone when Sherlock came out of his mind palace and wandered to the kitchen for tea.

"Yes, I _understand_ , but do you have late pick-ups?" He spotted Sherlock and poured a cup of tea, shoving it over at him. "Is that the latest? The _absolute_ latest?-Right. No, that's not going to work. Thank you for your time," he sighed and punched the end button with more force than necessary. "I swear," he told Sherlock. "There's not a daycare in London that'll let you pick a kid up after five p.m. for less than what I make in a week."

"You hardly ever need to stay that late," Sherlock stirred his tea and took a sip, then reached for more sugar. "Why don't you just enroll her in one of the regular programs and when you're working late, I'll pick her up myself. There's no use paying an exponential cost when you only work over once a week or so. And Mrs. Hudson would also be willing to pick her up if the need arose, I'm sure of it."

"You-you wouldn't mind it?"

"Of course not," Sherlock tried his tea again and hummed. "Put her in this one," he dug a pamphlet out of the stack on the table. "They have an excellent program that comes highly recommended and they aren't unaffordable."

John took the leaflet that Sherlock was holding out to him without looking. "I'll try for that one, then. Thanks," he managed.

"It's nothing."

 

Rosie really took to daycare. She had only threatened to cry a little on the first day, but was cajoled by John's promise to see her as soon as he was done with work. The weeks after that went well enough, and John had managed, although several times just barely, to get out of work early enough to meet the daycare's five o'clock deadline.

It wasn't until the end of the third week that John had needed to call Sherlock. "I'm so sorry, I've got ten patients still-some kind of bug going around, it seems, on top of the usual slew of STI's. I'll never make it there in time-"

"It's alright, John. I'll go get her right now. And...don't worry about dinner," Sherlock added, and hung up without a goodbye.

John breathed a sigh of relief and called for his next patient, resolved to still get out at a decent time.

 

"Daddy!" John hadn't even made it through the door before his daughter came running at him and hugged his knees tight.

"Rosie," he grinned and picked her up for a proper hug.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said, pulling away after a moment.

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" John furrowed his brows in concern, glancing at Sherlock.

"I was mad," she bit her lip.

John finally put Rosie down and closed the door as he knelt down to talk to her. "Why were you mad, darling? Because I didn't pick you up today?"

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

" _I'm_ the one who's sorry, Rosie. I told you I'd be there this afternoon and I had to send Sherlock instead."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. 'Cause you take care of people. And you haf-ta help them when they're sick."

"Oh, darling," John pulled her in to hug her again. "Did Sherlock tell you that?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded.

"You know what he _didn't_ tell you?" John leaned in conspiratorially, glancing up to the kitchen where Sherlock was plating takeaway.

"What?"

John smiled gently, his eyes wrenching back to Rosie. "That even though I help other people and take care of them when they're sick, I'll always be there for you when you're the one who needs me, and I'll always come back home for you no matter how late I have to work, and I'll _always_ love you the most."

"Daddy," Rosie giggled. "He _said_ that! What _didn't_ he tell me?"

John blinked and after a moment of processing, chanced another look up at Sherlock, who was pointedly keeping his gaze on the Chinese takeaway.

 

* * *

 

"Daddy,” Rosie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since he’d picked her up from daycare, poked at the dinner in front of her. “How come I don’t have a mummy?”

John’s devastated eyes sought Sherlock’s immediately, but Sherlock only held his gaze for a moment before he laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and turned to the little girl across the table. “Rosie, what makes you ask that?” Sherlock prodded gently.

“Um-we did a project today,” she said. “And Miss Polly asked us to draw our family. So I drew me and you and Daddy,” she looked back to John, whose face softened at the thought. “But Lizzie asked why Sherlock had short hair, so I told her it’s ‘cause he’s a boy, and you have short hair too ‘cause you’re a boy too, and then Julie asked me why I drew two daddys and no mummy…”

“Oh, darling,” John took in a deep breath, setting his fork down. “You’ve seen pictures of your mummy, remember?”

“Yeah,” she answered quietly, raising her eyes to the mantle where there was a picture of Mary Watson on her wedding day. “But she’s not _here_.”

“No, she’s not. She passed away,” Sherlock answered gently, realizing that John had frozen next to him. “When you were very young. And I’d bet she would have done _anything_ to be here with you instead.”

Rosie looked at the table again. “Lizzie said that Robbie’s mom doesn’t live with him, but he only has one dad still. _He_ just drew him and his dad.”

“We all have different families, Rosie. Some people don’t have a mommy _or_ a daddy, and some people have grandmas and grandpas or brothers and sisters too,” Sherlock told her gently. “Just because your family is different doesn’t mean it’s any less of a family. You know that, don’t you?”

Rosie nodded.

“Families don’t have to all be the same, just as long as they love each other.”

“But you and Daddy don’t even hug or kiss,” she frowned again. “Does that mean that you don’t love each other?”

Sherlock was the one unable to answer this time, and after a long moment of Rosie looking between them, confused, John answered, “There are all kinds of love, Rosie. I don’t have to hug and kiss Sherlock for him to know that I love him just as much as I love you.”

“Oh,” Rosie poked at her food again, and even though it was starting to go cold now, she started to pick at it.

 

“Goodnight, Rosie,” John tucked her in later that night, placing a kiss on her forehead.

Instead of the usual ‘goodnight’ in return, however, she asked, “Daddy?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Even though I _know_ you love me, I still like hugs and kisses.”

John cocked his head and bent to kiss her temple again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her, and shut her bedroom door quiety.

He passed Sherlock in the sitting room, ignored in favor of the electric violin which Sherlock hated so much. He was sawing at it furiously, headphones in place and stopping occasionally to jot down notes of the sheet in front of him. With no chance of getting his attention, John dressed for bed and laid down, completely exhausted despite an easy day at work, but unable to doze off. It was not until he heard Sherlock creep into the room near dawn and collapse on his own bed that John finally settled into a fitful state of sleep.

 

* * *

 

An uneasy feeling had been nagging at John for nearly a week now. He’d tried examining it every which way and it always boiled down to the same dead end-Sherlock. John knew him better than anyone, probably, and he’d only seen him like this once before; with Irene. John watched him hack at bowstrings at night and Mrs. Hudson reported that he’d been playing the most beautifully tragic songs for days now. His mood was unaffected except by Rosie’s bright smile and endless questions about everything from why broccoli was green to how speakers made sound come out.

John needed to put an end to it. He left work early and headed straight home instead of to the daycare like he usually did, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t chosen today to finally take a shower and leave the building.

Even from the street, however, he could hear the violin and it stopped him in his tracks. This song was not like Irene’s song. John heard so much more than the notes and the melancholy tune-he could hear what Sherlock was _feeling_.

Suddenly, the music screeched to a stop and Sherlock asked, “John? What are you doing home early?” John blinked, not remembering climbing the stairs from the street, much less opening the door. Sherlock stood next to the window, lowering his violin. “Where’s Rosie?” he added, frowning in concern.

“Daycare,” John finally answered. “I took half the day off.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“No,” John said miserably.

“Would you like me to pick Rosie up so that you can go in and rest?”

“No-that’s not what I meant. I’m fine, physically. I wanted to talk to you,” John took a few steps toward Sherlock, “I-sorry, I’m not sure quite where to begin…”

“You came here to discuss the possibility of moving out,” Sherlock said evenly, his voice quiet.

John’s stomach sank. “I did,” he said slowly. “That’s why I came, but it's not something I want to resort to. And...I have a better idea,” he licked his bottom lip nervously. “I want you to rewrite that song.”

Sherlock blinked, taken aback. “You-what?”

“The song-the one you were playing when I came in. It’s all tragedy and loneliness and unrequited love,” John felt like he was reaching here, but his gut instinct told him that it was right. “I never want to hear it again.”

Sherlock’s gaze was intense. “I can’t rewrite it, John,” he said quietly.

“But I can,” he said. “Can’t I?”

Sherlock’s Adam's apple bobbed. “John,” his voice was a scratch of a whisper. “Please don’t-”

John took another step forward, “No, Sherlock,” he shook his head minutely. “No, I won’t let this go on any longer. I love you. More than a friend, more than a brother, more than family-you already knew that, though, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes drifted toward the floor. “You knew before I did. How long-?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and there was a long pause before he answered, “The whole time,” came a whisper, almost in shame.

“Since…”

“Since Bart’s and Angelo’s and the serial killing cabbie-yes,” Sherlock finally locked eyes with him again.

“Mary knew.”

“Yes.”

John hesitated, “She...approved.”

“In a way, yes,” Sherlock took a deep breath.

“But you never said a word. You’ve been giving and giving and never even so much as ask for anything in return. It’s not right.”

“You do not _owe_ it to me to-”

“No,” John cut him off. “Sherlock, I don’t love you because I feel I owe it to you. I love you because you’re an amazing, caring, beautiful, _infuriating_ man.”

Sherlock’s Adam's apple bobbed again. “I am a _man_ ,” he stated quietly.

“Bloody-I don’t _care_ ,” John took another step forward, right into Sherlock’s personal space this time and pulled his chin down to plant a firm, but chaste kiss on his lips. “There, I’m gay for you, are you happy? I’d like to kiss other places as well, you know. Two nights ago I _dreamed_ about sucking your cock, so tell the bloody presses, let the Yard gossip-I don’t care as long as I’ve got _you_. You and Rosie. I love you, Sherlock.” John ran a thumb across Sherlock’s cheek as Sherlock let out a shaky breath, his own hand coming up to cup the back of John’s neck and pull him into a tight embrace.

“I love you too,” Sherlock whispered into his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that! Constructive criticism is appreciated. Cheers!


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